“Thanks, but we have all we need.”
“My friend over there,” the man said, “is a cattle buyer. He occasionally sells, too. And sometimes we grubstake a good outfit.”
Val made no comment, but he was curious. Will Reilly had taught him never to accept men at face value, and he did not. He knew that there are all kinds of men appearing in all kinds of guises.
“I am Steve Kettering,” the man went on. “My friend over there is Paul Branch.”
Val introduced Pa and Cody, and waited. This man was building up to something, and it might be interesting to know what it was. “What’s the matter with your friend?” he asked. “Isn’t he the sociable type?”
Kettering turned. “Paul, come on over and meet these gentlemen.”
Branch came over and sat down. “I am sorry, gentlemen,” he said, “I’m not in the best of moods. I came into town for a poker game and Kettering promised me one. If I am a bit restless, please forgive me.”
“What do you play for?”
They looked at him. “I mean,” Val said, “do you gentlemen play for money, or for cigar coupons?”
Branch reached down in his jeans and pulled out a thick roll of bills. “I play for that,” he said, “and there’s more where that comes from.”
It looked to Val like what was known as a Kansas City bankroll, a couple of tens wrapped around a thick wad of ones, or even around brown paper.
This man Kettering had seen him before, seen him drop a gold coin on the floor, and now he heard him trying to buy cattle, and needing no backing. Which Val knew would be evidence enough that he had money.
“Would you boys be interested in a little game?” Branch asked. “I mean, you have some time to kill, and I thought—”
How many times had Val watched the routine? Reilly was an honest gambler, and roped nobody into a game, but he had often pointed out such developments to Val, who was amused at how clear the pattern was.
“We’ve got business,” Pa Bucklin said. “If you’ve cattle to sell, we’ll talk. We got no time for cards.”
“I might have a little time,” Val said. “I might just have enough. A man standing in my shoes can afford to take a chance. But these cards look pretty used up—”
“I am sure the bartender has a fresh deck around,” Branch said. “Shall I call him?”
Val smiled. “Now there’s a gamble, right there. I’ll lay you three to one he does have a fresh deck. Is it a bet?”
Kettering’s eyes had grown suddenly wary. He looked at Val thoughtfully, but Branch shrugged it off. “That’s no bet. Most bartenders have a deck of cards for sale.”
The bartender brought a deck of cards and Branch broke the seal, and shuffled the cards. “Shall we cut for deal?” he said, and promptly cut the cards. Val saw the finger tap the stack gently as Branch reached to make his cut and knew he had a slick ace, its face treated with shellac to slide easily.
Branch turned up the ace of hearts. “You can’t beat that. Shall I deal?”
“But I might do just as well. Mind if I shuffle them first?”
He did … and promptly cut an ace.
Branch’s face stiffened, but Kettering only bit the end from a fresh cigar and lit it.
“Let’s just put these aces aside.” Val had picked up the cards again, and was shuffling them idly as he talked. “And try again. Maybe you can beat me this time.”
“It’s getting to be a warm day,” Kettering got to his feet. “You boys play if you like. I’m too restless.” He walked to the bar and ordered a drink.
Branch started to reply, his irritation showing, but Cody interrupted. “You ain’t goin’ to have time. I think I hear horses a-comin’.”
“One hand,” Val said. “Just you and me, Branch, and we play what’s dealt … no draw.”
Branch hesitated only a minute. The deck was marked to indicate face cards and he had two aces in a sleeve holdout, so there was little to worry about.
Val dealt the hands, and Branch saw the five cards Val dealt to himself had not a face card among them. Branch picked up his hand. Two eights, two queens and an ace.
Val was studying his cards, Pa Bucklin had walked to the bar again where he could watch the street, and Cody’s eyes were on the door. Branch made the shift without trouble, replacing the eights with the aces.
Branch put five gold eagles in the center of the table.
“You’re a piker, Branch,” Val said, “I’m just a greenhorn kid, but I’ll go five hundred.” And he put the money on the table.
“Forget it, Paul,” Kettering’s voice held an edge. “Throw in your hand and I’ll buy you a drink.”
Branch considered his cards. He now had a full house, aces and queens, and the chances that this boy could better it were small. He glanced at his cards and at the five hundred dollars in the middle of the table. There was a good chance this kid would be shot full of holes in the next few minutes, and somebody would steal the money from his pockets …
“I’ll see you,” he said. The horses were stopping now in front of the saloon. Branch placed five hundred on the table, and spread his cards … three aces and two queens. He started to reach for the pot, but Val spread his own hand … four tens and a three.
Paul Branch felt himself suddenly go empty. Val reached over and swept the money to him with his left hand.
“Paul”—Kettering’s voice broke through the fury that was mounting within him—“I’ll still buy that drink. Come here!”
Branch started to rise. Through a red haze of anger he remembered how Kettering had suddenly pulled out, how Kettering had tried to get him away. Kettering had seen something, sensed something, but he himself had been rooked—and good—by a mere boy.
It was in his mind to kill. He was opening his hand to reach for his gun when the doors smashed open behind him.
“I’m Chip Hardesty!” The tone was hard with challenge. “Where’s that kid?”
Val Darrant stood up. His mouth was dry and his heart was pounding. “Will Reilly was my uncle,” he said quietly, holding his voice down for fear it might become shrill. “You murdered him. You never gave him a chance.”
“I don’t fight kids!” Hardesty sneered.
“But you murdered a blind old man,” Val said, “and don’t worry about this kid. You were afraid to tackle Will Reilly when he had an even chance, and Will often said I was faster than he was.”
Hardesty laughed, but the laugh broke off. Faster than Will Reilly? It couldn’t be. He never knew when his hand started to move. He could not remember thinking that he was going to draw, only that his hand almost of its own volition was dropping, grasping the butt, lifting …
He never heard the sound of the gun, although it must have been loud in the room. He felt himself taking a step backward, and then he was sitting on the floor, and he was rolling over, and the last thing he saw were the gray slivers in the planks of the floor, and then a gray mist that crept over them.
Paul Branch was looking at the sprawled body of the gunman, feeling the icy chill at what he had almost done. He had been about to draw on this kid, and if he had done so he would now be dead.
Pa Bucklin stepped into the door. The teamster and two cowhands were outside. “You’d better come in and pick up your man. Take him back to your boss and tell him we Bucklins and Mr. Val Darrant are staying on at the Springs.”
Paul Branch said to Kettering, “If you are still in the mood to buy it, I’ll have that drink.”
Kettering ordered, and then spoke to Val. “You said Will Reilly was your uncle? Did he teach you about cards?”
Val put his palm down to holster level. “From the time I was that high,” he said, and he walked out.
He did not want to look at Hardesty. He did not want to think about what he had done. He wanted to be out in the air, and away from people. He no longer wanted to kill Thurston Pike or Henry Sonnenberg.
He did not want to be a gambler or a gunfighter. He did
not want to die as Hardesty had, or Will Reilly, or as Tensleep almost had. For a long time he had wanted to go east … now was the time.
He was going to keep five hundred dollars and he was going to leave the rest of it with the Bucklins to buy cattle and operate the ranch.
If he ever needed to come back, he could come back there, to the ranch …
Chapter Twelve
But he did not go … not quite yet. He rode with them to round up their cattle buy on the plains west of the Neuces, and started the long drive overland to the ranch, mostly young stuff with a few older steers to steady the herd. They wanted breeding stock, for they were not thinking of next year, but of the years to come.
After the first two days the cattle strung out, and for two weeks they moved the herd, first through dry country, and then across swollen streams and land that was soggy from the sudden rains.
At last Val pulled off to one side and said to Pa Bucklin, “I am leaving it to you. You will hear from me, and one day I will come back. In the meantime, build the herd, and when there is money for me, bank it in my name.”
They shook hands, and Pa said, “The womenfolk are going to miss you mighty. My girls set store by you, boy.”
“I will come back.”
Cody rounded the herd and rode up to him. “If you ever need help, you send out a call and we’ll come a-runnin’. We reckon you’re kin of ourn now.”
“I never had a family. Only Uncle Will, who wasn’t rightly my uncle.”
“You’ve got one now. From grass roots to cloud.”
The day was threatening rain when he turned his horse away from the herd and pointed north for Kansas and the railroad. He held to low ground because of lightning, but he kept a steady course. When night came there was nothing around him but dampness, the clouds, and the dark. He camped several times before he saw the lights of Dodge, and when he came up to the town he was wearing sodden clothing, several days of whiskers, and a bedraggled look.
He rode past a cheap saloon and did not see the man who suddenly gave him a second look, then spoke over his shoulder into the saloon.
He drew up opposite a restaurant and leaned over to stare in the rain-wet window, trying to see how inviting it looked inside. He swung down and was about to tie his horse when two men in boots and spurs came up the boardwalk.
“Shed right back yonder in the alley,” one said, “where you can put your horse out of the rain.”
“Thanks,” Val said, and followed the man into the alley. They were scarcely within its darkness when he heard the man behind him take a quick step. Val started to turn, but not in time. The gun barrel caught him a sweeping blow over the ear and he went down.
He heard a voice saying, “He’s wearing a money belt an’ packing about three thousand dollars.”
He felt hands fumbling at his shirt, but he could neither move nor speak. A voice was muttering, “Hell, there ain’t that much here!”
He felt rough hands seize him, and then he lost consciousness. He remembered nothing after that. When he opened his eyes it was daytime, and he was sprawled on his back. He heard a whistle, and he realized he was on a train, lying on the floor of an empty freight car. His head was throbbing.
He tried to sit up, and finally made it. The car door was open and he saw that it was still raining—the rain, slanting across the opening, was like a steel mesh. He felt at his waist—the money belts were gone. His gun was gone, too. He searched his pockets, but he found nothing, not so much as a two-bit piece.
The car was empty except for himself, and he had no idea how long he had been lying there. Through the night and most of the day, no doubt, for, judging by the light, it was already getting on toward evening. Several times he saw the lights of houses, so they must be in eastern Kansas or Missouri. He lay back, rested his head on his arm, and went to sleep.
A boot in the ribs awakened him, and a voice spoke. “Come on! Get up!” The train was standing still on the outskirts of a village. The voice came again. “Get out of here, now! An’ don’t let me catch you on one of our trains again!”
He ducked a blow, stood up, and dropped to the ground, but his legs were weak and he fell, rolling. Slowly, he pulled himself up. The train was starting, with jerks and a rumble.
He stood watching it vanish into the town. His head was throbbing, and when he put his fingers to his skull he found lacerations.
His mind fumbled over the sound of that voice. It belonged to somebody he had known or heard once before, and obviously it was somebody who knew he was carrying money—for he had known exactly where to look, and even how much had been there.
Val shivered with cold and wetness. Hunching his shoulders against the rain, he looked around. He stood at the bottom of the embankment. Ahead of him in a shallow valley, was a small stream, which the railroad crossed on a trestle. Clumps of willows grew along the stream, with here and there a cottonwood.
He saw a thin trail of smoke rising from a point downstream. Beyond the hollow he could see a house painted white, a red barn with a weather vane, and a windmill. Sitting down on a rock, he took off his spurs and dropped them into his pocket, then he started toward the trail of smoke.
A path led to an open place among the willows where three men were sitting around a fire. Two were older men, the other in his early twenties, Val judged.
They looked at him. “Man, you look as if you really got it rough,” the younger man said. “They throw you off that rattler?”
“They sure did.” Val touched his scalp. “But they didn’t do this. I got pistol-whipped in Dodge City.”
They looked at his outfit, and his boots. “You been punchin’ cows?”
It was simpler to put it that way, so he agreed. He dropped down on a log across the fire from them. “Somebody rolled me and dumped me into a boxcar. Where are we, anyway?”
“Missouri.” The younger man leaned over and filled a tin cup. “Have some coffee. Do you good.”
Neither one of the older men, both of whom looked capable and tough, had spoken.
“Which way you headed?” Val asked.
“East. I got an uncle in Pennsylvania. I’m going there.”
One of the older men leaned back under the makeshift shelter and said, “New Orleans for me. I can make it good, down south.”
“Ain’t much to do,” the other one said, “and they don’t pay nothing, Fred.”
“I’ll make out. I always have.”
The coffee was hot and strong, and it was just what Val needed. He felt the warmth of it go through him. “I got to find work,” he said. “They took all I had.”
“You got anything to sell?”
Val thought of his spurs. They were large-roweled, California-type spurs, not too common in this area. “I’ve got some spurs.” He showed them. “That’s about all.”
“You might get a dollar for them—maybe two if you hit the right fellow. Say, there’s a boy about your age up at that farm”—he pointed—“who might fancy those spurs. I seen him trying to rope a post up there. Fancies himself a cowhand.”
“You got to be careful,” Fred offered. “You can get six months for putting the bum—” At Val’s blank expression Fred explained. “I mean, for begging. You ask for grub or money, and they’ll put you on a work gang.”
“And it don’t make any difference that you’re huntin’ work,” the other man said. “I’m a millwright, and a good one, if I do say it. There just ain’t any work to be had.” The fire as well as the coffee had warmed Val, and he grew sleepy. All of the others dozed, but when a train whistle blew the three ran for the train and left him sitting there.
He stared into the ashes of the fire. The rain had stopped, and he should be getting on. He was fiercely hungry, his head still ached, and he was unbelievably tired. He got to his feet, kicked dirt over the fire, and took the path that led toward the farm where the boy lived who might buy the spurs.
The road was muddy, but he kept to the gr
assy border. Cows stared at him across the fence, and at the ranch a dog barked. He walked more slowly as he neared the farm, not wanting to enter. He had never sold any of his personal possessions, and did not feel sure how to go about it. He dared not ask for food—not if he could get six months in jail for it. And he knew that some jails hired their prisoners out as laborers and collected a fee from whoever hired them.
He hesitated, then turned in at the gate. A big yellow dog barked fiercely, but he talked softly and held out his hand to it. The dog backed away, growling.
A woman in a blue apron came to the door and looked at him suspiciously. “Yes? What do you want?”
“I was wondering if you had some work I could do? I can split wood, dig … I guess I can do anything.”
“No.” Her voice was sharp. “We don’t need any help, and you’re the fourth man who has been here this morning.”
A tall boy had come into the doorway behind her, and the contempt vanished from his eyes as he glimpsed Val’s cowboy boots. They had been made by the best maker of cowboy boots, and were hand-tooled, with fancy stitching.
“Are you a cowboy?” he asked.
“I was,” Val said. “I was robbed in Dodge City. Somebody put me on a train and here I am.”
“Tom, you stay in the house!” the woman ordered. “You don’t know who this man is.”
“He ain’t no older than me. Look at his beard—it’s only fuzz!”
Val was irritated by the comment, but he kept his peace. “Are you a cowpuncher?” he asked, knowing well enough that the boy was not.
“Well, not really.” The boy had come outside. He was about Val’s age but somehow seemed much younger. “I plan to be. Only my folks, they don’t cotton to the idea.”
He walked out and leaned on the top rail of the fence. Val sat on the rail beside him. “It’s hard work,” he said, “and some of those old mossy-horn steers get mighty ornery.”
They talked for a time while Val’s stomach gnawed with hunger. Finally he said, “I got to go. I want to find somebody who’ll buy my spurs.”
“Spurs? Let’s see them!”
Reilly's Luck Page 11